


Please Stop Finding Me

by thesleepypanda



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Episode 129, Isolation, Loneliness, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Peter Lukas is a creep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 17:23:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18319859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesleepypanda/pseuds/thesleepypanda
Summary: Martin's unsure if he let the fog dissipate, or if Jon somehow managed to step through it.





	Please Stop Finding Me

**Author's Note:**

> This picks up immediately after their conversation in episode 129.

Martin steps are hurried, angry, as he strides down the corridor. Unfamiliar feelings stir inside of him and he summons the fog without slowing down. It pools around his ankles, where it belongs—where it _always_ is. 

How the hell did Jon find him? He’s unsure if he let the fog dissipate or if Jon managed to step through it. Both options are horrifying, and he knows the _reason_ won’t be what Peter focuses on. 

Oh God. Peter. 

Panic seeps into his chest and he abruptly realizes he’s having trouble breathing. When did he last fill his prescription? His fingers twitch involuntarily as he goes to unzip his bag, waiting to hear that familiar rattle.

No. He doesn’t need that anymore—he has something better. He tries to convince himself that that's true as he allows the fog to rise higher.

Martin is unsurprised to find himself on the seventh floor, facing the office door of one James Musso. He opens it without knocking, closes and locks it behind him.

The temperature drops instantly when he crosses the threshold. He supposes vanishing someone leaves residue. It is a ruthless, frigid cold that _hurts_ and allows him to finally take a deep, shuddering breath. The presence of both the Lonely and Peter are almost tangible all around him, wrapping him in a tight, empty embrace. He inhales deeply and basks in the numbness he’s come to feed on. 

And hates himself for needing this.

No. Hate is another emotion he doesn’t need, doesn't _want_. He leans against the wall and lets the fog rise up to his chest—the highest he ever lets it go.

It still isn’t enough. So many emotions hit him all at once. They come to him in a sort of dizzying dance, toppling over each other, all grappling to be the one he feels first. He slowly slides down the wall until he’s sitting with his back pressed hard against it. Everything is spinning, crashing down on him. It’s too much. He presses both hands to his temples, as if he can shut out his thoughts by physical force.

 

_________________________

 

_**I heard about your mother. I am so sorry.** _

He hasn’t grieved since he got the call. Because as soon as he hung up the phone, Peter placed a large, icy hand on his shoulder and told him everything would be easier now. And he believed him. It was so easy to just believe him. 

But now, images spring into his mind in rapid succession: the green apron she wore when she could still bake bread, the throw blanket her grandmother knitted, the painting of a log cabin, the moving boxes from when they kept downsizing—until Martin spent his teenage years sleeping on the couch in a one-bedroom flat.

He winces at the memory of how she always looked at him—can vividly see the same expression through the years, consistent on an aging face. 

Did Jon think he was helping anything by bringing up her death? Was that meant to sound sympathetic? When he’d tried to explain the situation before, Jon hadn’t even registered it. He’d actually _smiled_ , just felt _relieved_ that Martin probably hadn’t murdered anyone.

___________________________

_**You’re working for someone...really bad.** _

Martin feels sick with guilt. It isn’t fair that Jon makes him feel like he’s betraying them, as if Martin wants this. He’s doing it for Jon, for Basira, for Melanie, for _everyone_. He doesn’t know if he made the right decision—all he knows is that there's no going back. 

He doesn’t hate the Lukases. A fresh wave of guilt hits him at the realization. He knows he should, knows it’s wrong...but he meant what he said. The only difference between serving this or the Eye is the fact that Martin actually matters here. And isn’t that the most fucked up thing of all? It took a monster, _a literal Lonely monster,_ to make him feel wanted for the first time. 

___________________________

_**I worry.** _

He realizes his fists are clenched, his breathing fast. Jon worries. _Jon_ worries. He lets out a loud, bitter laugh, and doesn't care that he’s probably lost the plot. He’s so angry that he is actually shaking. 

Martin has been worried his entire life. For a mother, who hated him. For Tim, who he couldn’t save. For Jon, who did nothing but talk down to him, ignore him entirely (unless he made a mistake), and make him feel useless. For years. 

And even still, Martin couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep for _months_ when Jon kept disappearing and reappearing with new injuries and an even stronger resolve to block everyone out. 

He’d thrown up almost every time he visited the hospital. 

But _Jon_ worries. Right. 

___________________________

_**If you do need to talk...** _

Martin scrapes his nails all the way down his forearm, leaving angry red scratches. He’s been trying to talk to Jon since they met, and he can’t count how many times Jon has cut him off, told him to shut up, practically thrown him out of his office. He tries to remember a time when Jon had said anything _remotely_ kind to him, and comes up empty. 

Now he wants to talk, when Martin’s voice is hoarse with disuse and his mind is so cloudy he can barely think. When did he last see anyone but Peter? Actually, when did he last see Peter? Time moves strangely in the Lonely’s domain. 

___________________________

_**I miss you.** _

Martin’s chest aches. Everything he’s wanted from Jon, all this time, only becomes available when he can’t have it. Even when everything is over, even if they succeed, he still won’t be able to. 

As angry as he is, he still wants Jon—wants him more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. 

And now every time he closes his eyes, he sees the way Jon looked at him. The way his eyes pleaded, how confused and hurt he was at the dismissal. How is he supposed to keep rejecting the only person he has left? He can’t. He can’t do any of this. He can’t. 

He squeezes his head harder and rocks gently, tries to make it stop, but it all just keeps repeating in his mind. An infinite loop. 

_I miss you._

_If you do need to talk…_

_I miss you._

_I am so sorry._

_I miss you._

And Martin finally makes his choice. He leans his head back, closes his eyes, and for the very first time, invites the fog to fully engulf him—welcomes the complete immersion. 

And then _everything_ falls aside. All the background noise of the institute fades, there’s no static in his mind, he can’t hear his own breathing. He isn’t sure if he even _is_ breathing any more. 

A cool tingling starts at the crown of his head, and slowly makes its way down his shoulders, through his chest, to the tips of his fingers, along his legs. It’s a relief so powerful, so intense, that he feels his eyes roll back. 

He’s acutely aware of every part of himself. He can feel the way the blood flows in his veins—can feel the way it turns colder. 

He vaguely remembers that some interaction with Jon had upset him. But how could _anything_ possibly upset him? There is a numbness spreading through every inch of him, inside and out. He slumps even further down the wall and wonders why he didn’t give himself over months ago. 

Here he has nothing to do, nothing to feel. He is nothing at all. And he is home. 

He’s dimly aware that his head is lolling. He smiles softly and whispers _I am all there is_ over and over and over again like a prayer—until it all fades to black. 

 

_________________________

 

He wakes up slowly as cool fingers gently caress his hair. “If I had known this would happen, I would’ve let you two speak weeks ago. I do hope you can forgive me.” 

Martin leans his head back further in response, lets Peter pepper soft kisses down his throat, feels his smile against his neck. “You’re so very good, Martin.” 

He doesn’t feel that familiar shiver at Peter’s praise. He doesn't feel anything at all—just smiles back and thinks _I am all there is._


End file.
